


rainbow valley

by philthestone



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, THIS IS ESSENTIALLY A BROOKLYN NINE NINE AU, basically constance leaves bonacieux and everything is good in this modern detective au, this is all vieve's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9607676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: “As I’ve made very clear, Detective,” says Treville, strained, “I don’t make it a habit of getting involved in my employees’ love lives. But considering this precinct’s utterly abysmal and somewhatdangeroustrack record, you really cannot fault me for being concerned when you walk into work with a split lip that was not present the night prior.”“Track record?” asks Constance weakly, and God, this really has just been the weirdest conversation.“Athos’s wife is a wanted criminal in twenty-two states who only last week evaded arrest yet again, d’Artagnan’s spent the better part of the past year pining afteryou, and Aramis has gone and fallen in love with the very married wife of a Europeannoblemanwho has somehow gotten himself accidentally involved with the Spanish mob!”“At least Porthos is doing alright,” offers Constance lamely.“Yes,” says Treville, looking harried. “There is that.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS ALL VIEVE'S FAULT BUT THIS AU IS THE BEST THING IN MY LIFE RN
> 
> anyways more notes at the end, reviews are moose tracks ice cream, which i personally have never actually tasted before,

Constance has always thought that Captain Treville’s office is somewhat spartan in decor. The desk is almost always immaculately clean, the commendations on the wall completely aligned and straight in their frames, and the clock above the doorway minimalist on charitable days. Aside from the small rainbow flag sitting among his pencils (all perfectly sharpened, all neatly arranged), fitted into his favorite fleur-de-lis-patterned mug at the edge of the desk, there really isn’t anything in the office that makes it particularly warm or welcoming or personable. Constance remembers only a few months before when the poor guy Deputy Commissioner Richelieu had sent down from human resources came to discuss Porthos and Aramis’s (convoluted, nonsensical, wildly work-inappropriate) email chain; he had entered Treville’s office looking apprehensive and left looking somewhat concerned. Constance, who had been privy to The Email Chain only once over Aramis’s shoulder, knew that it had somehow devolved from its benign origins of _subject line: check out this guy’s suspicious-looking mustache_ to classic French literature-related memes. Quite frankly, unless one was particularly well-versed in the minds of Detectives d’Herblay and du Vallon, any poor fool tasked with reading _through_ such an atrocity would likely as not emerge somewhat traumatized.

Joubert’s apprehension, however, had been surprisingly directed towards Treville himself; he had meekly suggested on his way out of the captain’s office, fiddling nervously with the bottom of his tie, that maybe he might consider putting a couch with earth-toned upholstery in the corner, just to make the place feel more welcoming?

Trevill had blinked at him, uncomprehending.

Aramis, who’d been trying to distract Athos from where he had his nose buried in case files by flinging paperclips at him across the room, had said, “Flower-patterned would make it even _more_ welcoming, don’t you think Captain?” 

Porthos had choked on his own laugh. Athos, engrossed in his case files, had tried to drink out of the communal bullpen pushpin mug and started spluttering in a most undignified manner.

D’Artagnan, bless him, had been the one to finally take pity on the aggrieved Joubert, leading him out of the bullpen and straight into the elevator with a comforting pat on his shoulder and a cheerful, “Come again soon!”

Constance remains standing in front of Treville’s desk, now, noticing that he never did take Joubert’s advice into consideration and get an earth-toned couch installed in the corner. 

(There is, however, a small framed photo of the squad from last year’s Christmas party, the lot of them grinning like doofuses at the camera and more than one of them with their eyes half closed, perched neatly on the far right of Treville’s computer, and Constance feels a trickle of warmth expand in her chest despite everything.)

The door to the office clicks shut behind them and Treville comes to stand behind his desk in front of Constance, looking uncharacteristically apprehensive.

“Detective Baudin,” he starts, raising his hands in front of him and then, as though unaware of what he is expected to do with them, placing them flat onto the desk.

Constance has a sinking feeling she knows exactly what this is about, so naturally, she says,

“I’ll have the paperwork on the attempted murder from last Tuesday on your desk by four, sir.”

(That is, quite obviously, _not_ what this is about.)

“Detective Baudin,” he starts once more, heaving a bit of a sigh and dropping his shoulders along with it. He looks up at Constance from his new position, looking tremendously weary; somewhat like an over-burdened single father.

Which is not so wholly inaccurate, Constance thinks sheepishly. Only, Constance hates it when _she_ is the child that causes the concern – she hated it with her real parents as well, which is possibly why she had so many anxiety attacks in college before acing all of her exams, in lieu of not being able to fathom letting anyone down. 

She shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

“If this is about the malfunctioning toaster oven, Captain, that was completely Detective d’Herblay’s fault.”

Treville takes his hands off of the desk and stands up straight again, staring down at a lone sheet of paperwork as though it is going to unveil the secrets of the universe. He clasps his hands in front of him – oh, no, now they’ve been switched to behind him – paces once to the left, changes his mind and turns back to the right.

He stops, now looking at the nearly bare wall in front of him and no longer at Constance, who is tugging nervously at the hem of her t-shirt and wishing that her bottom lip wasn’t quite so sore.

“I am not,” begins Treville, “usually one to meddle in my detectives’ personal lives.”

“No, sir,” agrees Constance, in a smaller voice than usual. Which is stupid, because she’s fine. The smallness of her voice has no business being present in this stupid un-homey office.

“And –” a brief closing of the eyes “– I cannot stress enough that if this conversation at any moment in time makes you uncomfortable, you are free to leave.”

Constance wants to note that this entire interaction has been more uncomfortable than that time d’Artagnan told Treville that his pantsuit was beautiful at last year’s disastrous Thanksgiving dinner, but instead she bites her lip. And winces, sharply, because the _damned_ thing is swollen and smarting like hell.

Treville takes this as his cue.

“Detective Baudin,” he says, somewhat awkwardly. “Are you … alright?”

Constance swallows thickly and wills herself not to do anything so wholly embarrassing and foolish as to _start crying_ in front of her _boss_ – she didn’t even cry last night, so why on Earth should she start crying _now_ , is the proper question, because she is _fine_ and this is _stupid_ and good riddance that it’s finally done with, anyways. So, as any reasonable person would instead of crying, Constance starts mentally planning exactly how she’s going to exact very detailed and painful revenge upon whomever of her co-workers tattled to the Captain, of all people, about her asshole boyfriend hitting her across the face.

It was probably Aramis. She’s going to _kill_ Aramis.

“Detective Baudin?” repeats Treville, gently encouraging. Treville is only gently encouraging when the world is possibly about to end – Constance recalls the week Porthos’s mum was in the hospital, or when Aramis nearly died in a routine training exercise that was targeted by members of the mob – and Constance will not stand for _gently encouraging_.

Everything’s _fine_.

Treville’s eyebrows, so very triangular and severe, twitch.

Then again, Constance remembers with a bit of a sinking feeling in her gut – Treville is a brilliant detective. Perhaps he figured it all out on his own, and really, she _should_ give Aramis a bit more credit than that, and –

“I’m fine, sir,” says Constance, in a voice that is a lot less firm than a fine person’s. She clears her throat, forcefully. “I’m _fine_ , sir.” There. That one was a lot better.

Treville closes his eyes shut and breathes through his nose – once, twice. The hands are back to being clasped behind him.

“Captain –” starts Constance. Her voice coming out a lot more aggrieved than she had intended, which is maybe what causes Treville to finally burst. Or snap. Actually, Constance thinks, the right word is probably _wilt_ , because his whole frame seems to sag and tense all at once.

“As I’ve made very clear, I don’t make it a habit of getting involved in my employees’ love lives, Detective, but considering this precinct’s utterly abysmal and somewhat _dangerous_ track record, you really cannot fault me for being concerned when you walk into work with a split lip that was not present the night prior.”

“Track record?” asks Constance weakly, and God, this really is shaping up to be the weirdest conversation.

“Athos’s wife is a wanted criminal in twenty-two states who only last week evaded arrest yet again, d’Artagnan’s spent the better part of the past year pining after _you_ , and Aramis has gone and fallen in love with the very married wife of a European _nobleman_ who has somehow gotten himself accidentally involved with the Spanish mob!” Treville looks harried. “I’ve been a police captain for the past fifteen years, and until two weeks ago I didn’t even know the Spanish mob _existed_!”

“At least Porthos is doing alright,” offers Constance lamely.

“Constance,” says Treville, his voice flat, and perhaps it is the use of her first name, but Constance straightens herself and sets her jaw.

“Please don’t worry, Captain, I dumped his miserable arse immediately.”

“Well thank God for common sense and small miracles,” says Treville in a hoarse voice, finally collapsing backwards into his desk chair. “Do you need anything at all.”

“I don’t, thank you.”

“Are you in need of medical attention.”

“No, only a little sore.”

“I have aspirins in my desk.”

“Thank you Captain.”

“Should we press charges?”

“Please,” says Constance, “I’d rather just forget about it and move on. I’m not afraid of him.”

Treville regards her carefully for a moment.

“Are you,” he says again, far gentler this time, “ _alright_ , Constance?”

“I –” Constance feels her brows crease of their own accord. “I’m okay.” Her voice is much smaller than it usually is, for some reason. “A bit in shock, I think. But I’m better than I was last night.” 

Last night, when she had not known to do anything other than ride her motorbike as though on autopilot until it was parked in front of Porthos and Aramis’s apartment, not realizing what she was going to say – what possible _explanation_ she could give – until she’d already rang the unpredictable, perpetually unrepaired doorbell. Of course, she could have gone to d’Artagnan’s, but Feelings were tricky, messy things and perhaps this was smarter; Aramis had taken one look at her in the doorway and asked no questions, but immediately swept her into the living room, installed her onto the couch and hollered across the house for Porthos to make tea and put a couple eggs to fry. _That_ , Constance had thought belatedly, was probably why autopilot had taken her there. No barrage of questions about her well-being, no carefully controlled anger that would have likely made her lapse into tears that she really, really didn’t want to spend on someone as miserable and useless as Jaques Bonacieux. Aramis’d sat down with her and let her tremble against his shoulder for a solid five minutes, until she’d stopped shaking long enough to properly curl up against him in a hug, and they’d sat like that until Porthos brought the tea and eggs and bread and said, “God above, Connie,” and gone to fetch the antibiotic cream and sanitary wipes to tend to her lip.

“There’s _empanadas_ in the freezer, too,” he’d said, wordlessly holding up the cracked hand mirror from the bathroom for her to clean the blood off herself. Aramis was always warm, and some of his warmth had seeped into Constance’s t-shirt and made her arms stop shaking. “If you’re not feelin’ the eggs. Aramis’s mum brought ‘em a month ago.”

“The cure to all ills,” Aramis had said, his voice light and warm as always, “are my mother’s _empanadas_.”

“Moose tracks ice cream in there too.”

“That was Athos, I believe. He’s always leaving his things here.”

“That’s because he always _is_ here. Our refrigerator is actually functioning, so he takes advantage.”

“And provides moose tracks ice cream in payment.”

“I’m partial to that praline stuff myself,” Porthos had said, grinning at Constance in a way that said he knew exactly what their mindless, easy banter was doing. Constance could have kissed them both. 

Of course, Athos and d’Artagnan _had_ shown up anyway, because Constance couldn’t remember the last time her wayward co-workers spent a night doing anything so unreasonable as sitting alone in their apartments with their own thoughts like normal people. But before any reactions could have been had, Aramis had all but frog-marched d’Artagnan into the kitchen and tasked him with doing the day’s dishes. A genius plan, Constance had thought somewhat dazedly as Athos had, without a word, draped the massive patchwork quilt from one of the bedrooms over her head and taken his place on the couch on her other side; the kitchen had been vigorously cleaned to the point of sparkling and no one had done anything so rash as to commit murder, for which Constance was grateful. 

Constance had been alright. Constance _is_ alright. It’s not a big deal at all, and it’s been dealt with, and she’d really like to go back to her paperwork.

“Are you certain?” asks Treville now, a small crease appearing between his severe brows, voice still gentle.

“The worst of the shock is over,” Constance says, trying to keep her voice even. Probably the best way to convince herself, really. “I’m perfectly fine, sir.”

That’s what she had told Anne over the phone, too, at sometime around quarter to midnight, sitting on the couch in Aramis and Porthos’s living room – which incidentally _was_ flower patterned, a fact that Constance found absurdly comforting. She was wrapped in the massive patchwork quilt that smelled of cinnamon, listening to Porthos sort through their collection of action movies and family-friendly coming of age soccer films (Constance always had liked _Bend it Like Beckham_ ), looking for something to put into the player as background noise. And Constance had called Anne, who was simultaneously her best friend in the world and the afore-mentioned very married wife of the European nobleman accidentally involved with the Spanish mob.

Constance thanked God with more sincerity than she ever had before in her life that Anne had picked up the phone on the second ring, somehow able to evade her husband’s disapproval at her choice of friends even then at forty minutes past eleven.

Anne had said, “Thank _Christ_ you left him, darling,” her voice so sincere and firm and _Anne_ over the phone, and any doubts Constance had had seeped out of her chest right there and then. She was still a little shaky, though the tea and food had helped, as had Anne’s initial exclamation of, “¡ _Hijo de puta desgraciado miserable_!” which Constance had repeated weakly out loud in confusion only to have Aramis choke on his tea and burst out laughing from his position on the couch beside her. 

(“Spineless miserable son of a bitch,” he’d translated approvingly, with a stupidly affectionate look on his face that Constance had dutifully ignored.)

The clock on the wall ticks, now.

“I have seen,” says Treville, “many – cases. I never intended to assume anything, but –”

Constance sighs. “Aramis told you, didn’t he.”

“Actually,” says Treville, “it was Athos.” He suddenly looks more than a little awkward once more, as though he’s not sure whether or not he should do something completely fantastical, like reach out and pat Constance on the shoulder.

Well, Constance thinks, defeated: she can’t go and do anything so unreasonable as kill _Athos_. And besides, all things considered, she wouldn’t mind an awkward shoulder pat from Treville, really.

“Captain,” she says, “I have a lead on the robbery on twenty-fifth street.”

“Yes,” says Treville. “Of course, Detective. I shall walk you back to your desk.”

Constance can’t help but smile a little, lopsided because of the still-tender lip, more than a little amused at Treville’s carefully controlled protectiveness manifesting an a stilted desire to protect her from the ills of the world in the thirty second walk from his office to her worn desk chair. They make it all the way to her desk and Constance wonders at the relative silence of the bullpen, only a few stray beat cops milling about the elevators and one or two perps in holding, looking utterly bored. Constance supposes that it’s most people’s lunch break, and that she’d been planning on sloughing through ten pages of paperwork instead of eating in the breakroom with the boys just to keep her mind off things when Treville had originally called her into his office.

The captain is about to give her his widely-known nod of stilted paternal acknowledgement before returning to his own office when the elevator opens and four bodies freeze.

“She was supposed to be out on lunch break,” says Aramis, who is standing closest to the open elevator door, clutching a slightly bent out of shape cardboard box. Someone behind him swears, and Aramis says, “You were supposed to be out on lunch break,” this time actually directed towards Constance.

“What,” says Constance, “on _earth_. Are you doing.”

“I told you she’d be mad,” mumbles a voice that Constance identifies as d’Artagnan’s from somewhere inside the elevator, right as Aramis says, “Well then, better come clean,” and makes to step out into the bullpen.

Naturally, this is when the elevator door decides to close on him, making him fumble with his box and swear as another hand shoots out to trigger the sensors.

“Just hit the _door open_ button!” comes a strangled voice.

“I _am_ hitting the _door open_ button!”

“Don’t drop the damned boxes –”

“ _Ow_ , Porthos –”

“The button thing’s broken,” offers one of the perps in holding. “You’ve gotta jam your shoulder in there real hard.”

“Christ almighty,” says Captain Treville, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The elevator door opens, and Constance watches as her three fellow detectives and sergeant troupe into the bullpen laden with mismatched cardboard boxes and, in Porthos’s case, a particularly nicely embroidered throw pillow that she recognizes as a birthday gift from her mother two years previous.

“Your things, Madame,” says Aramis cheerfully, his person only slightly rumpled by his wrestling match with the elevator, dumping his own cardboard box onto Constance’s desk and grinning at her. “And don’t worry, because Athos specifically made sure to collect your dress catalogues, too.”

“And the set of porcelain ducks from the flea market last year, d’Artagnan grabbed those,” adds Porthos, who follows his partner out into the bullpen. 

Constance blinks at them.

“You – you got my things from Jaques’s place?”

“You’d said last night you didn’t want to uh, think about – having to deal with. Well you know, you didn’t want to go _back_ and – fetch them,” says d’Artagnan, with a great deal of eloquence, still holding his own box. He looks slightly nervous, hesitant to meet her eyes, as though he fears she’s going to yell at him for interfering. Constance realizes with a sinking feeling that it’s not as though she hasn’t done that before, like an utter _fool_. “So we thought –”

“It was my idea,” says Athos, his voice loud and clear, stepping forwards and setting his box down on the floor beside her desk. “I thought that, while completely understandable, your hesitation would be better addressed if we just sort of –” And here _his_ eloquence has run out, so he waves his hands in front of him somewhat ungracefully.

“Dived head-first into the fray?” offers Aramis.

“Indeed,” says their sergeant, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Forgive us for presuming, Constance.”

“You didn’t –” Constance starts.

“Hurt him, not at all,” says Athos flatly. 

“Well, Porthos may have scared him a little,” says Aramis, looking supremely pleased.

“‘S not my fault I can sometimes have that effect on people.”

“And d’Artagnan glared a lot.”

“You glared too!”

“But Aramis can actually intimidate people when he glares,” says Porthos. “You just look pissy.”

“I do _not_ , I’m more than –”

“ _Detectives_ ,” says Treville, finally speaking, his arms crossed over his chest. They all fall silent.

“It was on our lunch break,” offers Aramis helpfully, tapping his fingers against his legs in a nervous tick. “So we’re all on schedule, Captain.”

“The bastard was quakin’ in his stupid polished shoes,” says Porthos fondly. “A solid use of a lunch break, I think.” He frowns, suddenly, looking sheepish. “Sorry, Constance –”

“Oh,” says Constance finally, a little overwhelmed. “I – oh. Oh, no, it’s perfectly – you’re all –” She trails off, _now_ suddenly feeling the pressing urge to cry, and it is once again categorically not the time and perhaps that’s why she looks instinctively towards d’Artagnan, standing there still clutching her box of things with his hair hanging in his eyes and his button down shirt somewhat rumpled. D’Artagnan who is reckless and hot-tempered and never uses properly sharpened pencils on his paperwork, _why_ doesn’t he just let her buy him the mechanical ones, and who always has her back when they’re chasing perps, and whose voice is quiet and gentle and meant only for her when he takes a small step forwards and speaks again. 

“Constance? Are you okay?”

Which is the real question here, isn’t it. She keeps _saying_ she is, has been since the night before, but. But. _But_.

Well, there it is.

“I –” she flounders – “I’ve nowhere to put all my things.”

They stare at her.

“Well don’t be ridiculous,” says Porthos. “You’re stayin’ with us ‘til you can find your own place, aren’t you.”

“I,” says Constance, “I am?”

“‘Course you are,” says Porthos. “We can fix up the livin’ room real nice for you, Con. And I’ll make d’Artagnan clean up the bathroom.”

D’Artagnan looks pained. Treville, who has not yet made it back to his office, once more pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I always knew that pull-out couch would be good for something,” says Aramis happily, dropping down in his own office chair and spinning around a bit.

“I never had anything against it,” says Porthos, frowning.

“ _Those flowers are arse-ugly_ , I believe was the exact quote –”

“What they _mean_ to say,” says Athos, “is that you’ve nothing at all to worry about at all, Detective Baudin.”

Constance stares at them: Porthos, still holding two boxes at once, his eyes crinkled in the corners with sincerity; Aramis, in desperate need of a shave, so focused on smiling at her encouragingly that he’s stopped spinning in his chair altogether; Athos, standing stiffly with his detective badge held in front of him, trying to hide the concern in his eyes behind his glasses.

D’Artagnan touches her arm gently, and Constance starts, not having realized he’d moved.

“You alright?” he repeats, still quiet, still only for her ears.

Constance swallows. Looks at him. Grabs his hand.

“I won’t be your housemaid,” she says out loud. 

“They’ll all get suspended if you are,” says Treville, deadpan, and Athos lets out an odd sort of high pitched sigh.

“I shall fold my laundry as though my life depended on it,” vows Aramis, actually clasping the crucifix around his neck in his hand. 

“Oh God, don’t listen to him,” says Porthos, grimacing. “He does the damn laundry, it’s his books he’s always leaving lyin’ around the place.”

“So I can pick them up again easily!”

Constance blinks again, focusing on the warmth of d’Artagnan’s hand, still held in hers. She has her things. She has a place to stay. And she has – _friends_ , God that’s just – not nearly a big enough word to figure all of this out, to describe it, because she’s suddenly quite certain she could announce that she’s planning on moving to Bulgaria to elope with the first minister tomorrow and at least three of the four of them would immediately offer to come along with her for the first week, just to make sure she’s settled. The one who didn’t would offer to house sit and water her plants.

Which, of course, they’d likely forget to do, because if Constance knows anything it’s that the life of a detective is odd hours and week-old takeout and occasionally lying face down on the couch in the break room and groaning about how you don’t have any leads for anything and your love life is shot because your work hours are ridiculous and you may be in love with a married woman.

(That was Aramis, in particular, five days ago, but Constance knows the sentiment can apply to most detectives in _general_ , if she’s being quite real about it.)

But it’s also – warmth. And trust. And the smell of cinnamon on that giant quilt and Porthos humming as he fries the eggs and Athos complaining that they’ve run out of decent Earl Grey, _why_ haven’t they restocked, they couldn’t possibly expect him to survive on the weedy herbal nonsense that Aramis is so irrationally fond of.

It’s also Captain Treville’s spartan office and small small smiles, one of which he’s trying to hide now, Constance notices, watching his detectives from his perch on the edge of Athos’s desk.

“And there’s moose tracks ice cream in the fridge, we never got to that last night.”

“That’s _my_ moose tracks ice cream.”

“‘S in the communal fridge, which means it’s everyone’s moose tracks ice cream.”

“You could just buy your own ice cream. Neither of you even _likes_ moose tracks ice cream.”

“I like all ice cream, what are you on about!”

“He’s grasping at straws.”

“You said, the other day, and I quote – ‘I’d rather die than eat moose tracks ice cream’.”

“Well Aramis always is needlessly dramatic, isn’t he.”

“Shut up, Porthos, I’m exactly as dramatic as I need to be.”

“We haven’t resolved the fact that that _is,_ by all accounts, _my_ moose tracks ice cream.”

Constance turns to d’Artagnan, who is still holding her hand. He has a small smile on his face, filtering through the concern in his eyes.

“I’m alright,” says Constance, finally, smiling a lopsided smile and barely noticing the pain in her lip. “I’m really, _really_ alright. And I need to finish my damn paperwork. D’you want to help out?”

“I’d love to, Baudin,” he says. She flicks him in the chest when he pulls a mechanical pencil out of the box he’s carrying and he smirks, his brown eyes sparkling.

“I’m alright,” she says again, this time to herself.

And, for all the world, it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES:  
> \- this is BASICALLY a b99 au but vieve (@hansolosbutt on tumblr) calls it "the modern au" and it's the best thing in my life  
> \- treville is .... basically captain holt lads there's no two ways about this  
> \- constance's last name is baudin bc her niece was named such and constance needed her Own last name, thanks very much  
> \- i used spanish as sparingly as i could because i didn't have time to cross-reference my translations and shamelessly got anne's line from google translate. hopefully "spineless miserable son of a bitch" is straightforward enough that i didn't butcher it  
> \- related: in this au anne is Spanish From Spain and aramis is latino as per in real life, everything is good, we're all happy, theyre in love, it's cool,  
> \- related to that related thing: bc it doesn't make any sense for Everyone to be orphansTM, the moc (mothers of colour) are very much alive and well in this universe. porthos's dad is the equivalent of this au's roger peralta but everyone loves his mom, who is alive because wow hospitals, and aramis's mum makes awesome empanadas and kicks ass at life. cool? cool,  
> \- hopefully this isn't too long winded and run on sentence-y and u can all forgive my insistence at using a million "ands" in one sentence  
> \- THE TITLE IS FROM ANNE OF GREEN GABLES BOOK 8 BC THAT IS IN FACT A BOOK ABT CHILDREN GETTING UP TO PURE SHENANIGANS and this too is a story abt children getting up to pure shenanigans  
> \- they're a family u guys  
> \- ANYWAYS HOPE U ENJOYED


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